


Her

by astramagumquecano



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Jim Moriarty, POV Sebastian Moran, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 11:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astramagumquecano/pseuds/astramagumquecano
Summary: I am going to try and remember. I am going to show Her to you as she was, because that is what I'm supposed to do. You'll probably like Her far more than me, anyway - most people did - so I'm sure you'll be glad to be rid of me. And She'll love it, if I tell it right.Maybe She'll come back, if I tell it right.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Fem!Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jamie Moriarty





	1. 7th March, 2021

_'What is the best thing to do with a mad person? Write him out of your novel.'_

\- Anne Carson, _Eros The Bittersweet_

I never planned on writing down what happened to me. Putting it all in words felt too concrete, too serious – far too serious for my little life. I always felt as if I wouldn’t have enough to write about, as if my life – rich father, boarding schools, Oxford, army, alcohol – wasn’t enough to interest anyone but tabloid journalists. Always felt that, if I wrote anything down, if I committed so much of myself to writing, people would look through me to find Her.

Then, I realised that She was the point.

They’d called Her a monster in the press, afterwards. _Psychopathic Genius Gone Rogue_. Questioned why the government never caught Her – which turned into discussions of the domestic terrorism budget and the competency of the chief of Scotland Yard, who’d ‘resigned’ before another big wig with a few years’ experience of sitting behind a desk was brought in to fix everything that’d gone wrong. Questioned the corruption of government officials, who’d turned their backs on Her escapades as long as it meant they got a nice little hand off and their wives and children were kept in their cocoon of normal life. That questioning didn’t reach any conclusion, obviously.

They were right – right to question, right to scribble their headlines away, right to call Her a monster, because that was what She was, in their eyes. That was what She was to them.

To me, She was light. My life, which had previously been dark and dingy and hidden away, the memorials to it scratched off and any attempt at remembering obliterated by drink, was given meaning when She came into it. She _was_ the meaning; Her slow, shallow breaths as She slept, the way Her breath smelled like toothpaste and English Breakfast tea every morning, how Her bones moved beneath Her skin like the fluttering wings of a captured baby bird.

She’d hate me for saying it. Actually, I can see Her now, laughing at me, up there, down there, wherever the hell She is. Six feet under in a graveyard under an unmarked stone. But that was what She was – She was colour, amid the grey, and now I’m left with dull memories. Underdeveloped photographs which I’d always believed She would be around to explain to me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I am going to try to remember. I am going to show Her to you as she was, because that is what I’m supposed to do. You’ll probably like Her far more than me, anyway – most people did – so I’m sure you’ll be glad to be rid of me. And She’ll love it, if I tell it right.

Maybe She’ll come back, if I tell it right.

Colonel Sebastian Moran

7th March, 2021


	2. March 8th 2021

I’ve been advised to try this from the beginning. Maybe it’ll give you a better picture of what She was like, if you see Her from the outside first. Although I don’t think it will. I don’t think even the people who knew Her best know what She was truly like - She was elusive like that.

When I first met Her, I was at a dinner party. I’d always hated frills, hated decorum, ever since I was a five-year-old, forced into baby blue suits and prettied up for the cameras while my mother swallowed Xanax like painkillers and washed them down with expensive champagne – but Irene had forced me to come, through a mixture of vague threats and pleading. I never could say no to a pair of big brown eyes – that was something She’d take advantage of. At Ms Adler’s behest, I’d turned up, early – 9pm – to her sprawling estate, exchanged niceties, sat down next to an empty chair, and started on some surprisingly nice foie gras thing, by the time She finally arrived.

I hadn’t spoken to Her, at first. To my credit, She hadn’t spared me a second glance, more interested in how Oliver’s ‘darling twins’ were – they weren’t ‘darling’, they were little shits, but She was always good with words – and where Mr Copley’s wife had gotten that Valentino dress altered, because you could hardly even see the stitching and She _had_ to send her own clothes there. I did think, though, as She took Her seat next to me, that Irene had planned it, because, when She _did_ look me in the face, there was something in Her eyes that tugged at me.

“Be a doll and pour me a glass of wine, will you?”

The first words She spoke to me, the words dripping off of Her lips like candy-coated venom. Her gaze, heavy, had trailed over me once, twice, and then, without so much as a ‘thanks’, She’d turned Her back and immersed Herself in conversation with everyone but me. I shouldn’t have poured the wine – I shouldn’t have made it obvious that I could be that much of a pushover – but I did, generously, topping my own glass up. And then I went back to being the table-piece.

I’d noticed, over my years in London’s high society, that there were roles needed at each and every function – and particularly at Irene’s. She might as well have sent out a casting call, since she would probably have found some more docile versions of the people she wanted, toned down by dramatics, but she’d always liked authenticity.

She’d have:

  * The Acolyte: without fail, at every single party or dinner or race or function, Irene would have someone hanging off of her arm; this could be anyone – the only requirements for the role were a simpering smile, dazzling good looks (although they couldn’t be better-looking than her), and a willingness to have loud, raucous sex once dinner was over somewhere else in the house, purely to make the other guests uncomfortable.



That night, the role was being played by some poor guy, probably in his early twenties, with far too much gel in his hair and who treated Adler like a goddess. I realised, later on, that She had probably made it abundantly clear that she wanted Irene’s object to be a guy. She couldn’t bear anyone being prettier than Her.

  * Money-Bags: Money-Bags would often arrive in the form of a stocky man in his late forties, with a receding hairline and an excessive amount of cash in his wallet; often accompanied by a similarly-aged wife, they provided the conversation at the beginning of the evening, before it deteriorated.



Mr Arnold Copley was our old rich guy that night. She hated him; She never really told me why – but I have my own theories, and the one I’ve most convinced myself of was that he wasn’t interested in Her.

  * The Celebrity: Adler liked royalty – so it was usually a Prince, Princess, or Duke who comprised this particular position around dinner table; all for status, never for conversation (they were never that bright).



We weren’t joined by any blue blood that night, but we _were_ joined by a politician. Not your typical run-of-the-mill MP escaping constituents and scrolling through Twitter, but rather Mycroft Holmes, from somewhere in the inner workings of the government’s mind. I should’ve shot him that night – in the face, close-range, with a rifle. It wouldn’t have stopped Her from fucking me – actually, it probably would’ve _encouraged_ Her to fuck me. She liked violence. Turned her on.

And then, we get to my starring role: The Centrepiece.

While I wasn’t exactly well-known outside of certain circles, I was well-known to those around Irene Adler. My father, Lord Augustus Moran, an ex-advisor to the Prime Minister and well-known rich wanker, was one part of it. Then, the mutual antipathy between myself and the British Army – a dishonourable discharge had done me no favours, and my CO had deserved what had happened to him; it wasn’t my fault that I was the only one with the guts to do it. The main reason, though, that they wanted me there – that _She_ wanted me there – was because of my ability with a gun and my tractable morality. I’d become known as a hitman. Everyone wanted one of those.

I was halfway through the second course, which had been brought in to various compliments (it was _really good_ ), when She’d turned to me again, this time to ask me to pass the salt. When I handed it over to Her, she was staring at my wrist, and I noticed She didn’t put any on Her plate.

She always was a picky eater. And She knew how to figure things out without being too conspicuous. I only know half of these things about Her, about how She knew so much about me, in retrospect, while I sit and relive these memories in my head. I remember, now, that Her hair, perfectly pulled back in some kind of complicated bun, had been coming loose at the side. I should’ve told Her, but back then She probably would’ve killed me for it, rather than thanking me.

That was one of my privileges: being able to tell Her when she didn’t look perfect without punishment. It was a rare opportunity.

The rest of the main course passed without incident, and then, dessert came along, and, as She’d do over the years, She complained about the sugar. The icing was too sweet – She hated cheap sugar, left Her with a funny taste in her mouth.

“I’m sure Moran will eat it for you.” The voice was Irene’s, pointed, rather clear – she knew how to order someone around, knew I’d do it because she’d asked. I remember glancing up, looking at her, and then at Her, while She stared at me expectantly. “Won’t you, Sebastian?”

I cleared my throat; I saw Her smirk. “Of course. If you don’t want it.”

That was the first time I looked Her in the eye. In fact, it was the first time I’d taken a proper look at Her all night, consciously. Hair, dark like congealed blood or tempered hot chocolate, smooth, carefully styled. Eyes, deep and heavy, clever, sparked, insane, intimidating and intoxicating. Everything about Her was dark – Her lipstick, Her dress, Her nails – all set off against that skin. She’d always been far too pale – always was. Bruises showed far too easily. She’d never get tanned, though – Irish skin burns quickly, and every holiday we went on, She spent in the room.

I can’t complain about that. I was normally there with Her.

Without so much as a word to me, She pushed Her plate over to me, expectant, and, forcing myself to stop looking at Her, I did as She wanted – as they both wanted – peeling every square of pink icing off like a scab and piling them up on my own plate. No one else was watching – even Irene was distracted – which was probably good for my ego. I guess I was less touchy from the get-go, under Her influence.

She had this kind of self-confidence, a sort of reassuring kind, that told you there was no point in getting embarrassed about anything, because the only person you had to worry about was Her. There wasn’t an ounce of humility in Her, which allowed Her to watch me do it. I was suddenly grateful I’d washed my hands – no dried blood that She could complain about under my fingernails. I’d gotten lucky.

The moment I was done, She reached forward to drag her plate back, but not all the way, leaving it hovering between us. A mark of her interest that I was maybe too stupid to unpack. Her voice was smooth, like poured wine.

“Charmed.”

A flash of a smile, a brief glance-over, and She turned her attention back to Irene’s trophy boy, ever-so-slightly inclined towards me.

\--- --- ---

It was 11:13pm by the time we’d finished eating. People were lounging in Irene’s living room, sharing bottles of wine, gossiping, offering contracts and bitching about their hostess, who’d promptly left with Ben (boy-toy) and would probably start dragging moans out of him soon enough. She hadn’t looked at me still, ensconced between Arnold Copley’s wife and another miscellaneous guest who looked mildly important, and I was bored. Knowing they’d bitch about me the moment I left, I stood, grabbed my coat, muttered something about getting a cigarette, and left.

The balcony was a nice place to stand and look out. Irene owned twenty acres of forest just outside London, and more than once, when I’d been forced over there for something or other, I’d sat on the railing and watched guests straggle through the lamplight in various stages of undress, birds fly through the trees, occasionally a deer peeking out onto the cleared lawn. It was a good place to contemplate, and a good place to smoke. A good place to be alone.

She had a talent of creeping up on people – used to scare the shit out of me half the time, and I’m trained to notice that kind of thing. But She wasn’t threatening – not externally, not when She didn’t want to be. I didn’t notice Her until I heard high heels hit the concrete, and didn’t turn to look until She was stood next to me, one hand out towards me, expectant.

When I didn’t immediately respond, She turned to look at him, looking scandalised, an eyebrow raised, but with just a hint of amusement.

“Oh, go on, do the right thing – throw a gal a _bone_ , will you? I’m _gasping_.” That voice. Haunting. I can hear it now.

I didn’t have to be told twice – reached into my pocket, pulled out my pack, and shook one out into her palm. She took it, caught it between Her teeth, then reached around in my pocket for a lighter. Found it, lit up, and pushed the Zippo into Her jacket pocket instead. Magpie.

Smoke blew out from between Her lips as She spoke. Blue cotton-candy.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

I wasn’t surprised that She knew. Irene had probably told Her – and it wasn’t like I didn’t carry the army on my shoulders, in my bearing, Hell, even in the way I spoke. Forcing myself to look ahead instead of across at Her, I let my eyes level on a particularly tall tree, cutting through the moon.

“Afghanistan.”

“And you’re a Colonel?” She paused. It was deliberate, the mistake. “Oh – _ex_ -Colonel – _sorry_.” She didn’t mean it.

“I’m an ex-Colonel. Yes.” My gaze tracked back to Her. Then I realised She was looking at me, Her cigarette caught between Her fingers, dropping ash onto Her shoe.

“I bet I know every little scar on your body.”

Irene had told Her. She had to have told Her.

“Well, there’re quite a lot.” An attempt at humour. If it was any credit to me, I was one of the few people who could make Her laugh, genuinely, and She did, even though it wasn’t that funny.

A few moments of silence. She took another drag off of Her cigarette.

“They’re bitching about you in there, you know.” The look on Her face was one I’d get to know in the coming years. She adored having dirt on people, adored being able to manipulate people’s thoughts. She adored gossip. The only time She ever hated it was when it was about Her, when She hadn’t explicitly manufactured it. “That woman – you know, the one with the _obvious_ dye-job – was saying how your shirt’s old. Collar’s grey, wearing out. And someone said something about you being ‘all muscle, no brain’.” She glanced at me, as if to figure out my reaction.

“That was me, by the way. I said that. I _would_ apologise, but I don’t think you mind all that much – do you?”

She could always make me laugh, too.

“There are worse insults. Sort of a back-handed compliment, if you think about it.”

“Well, some people find muscle useful. More useful than brain, anyway. Brawn. That kind of thing. It’s sexy, traditionally, I suppose.” I couldn’t tell if She was flirting with me – She was subtle like that. “You should probably take it as a compliment, anyway. You’re just what I’ve been needing.”

She was definitely flirting.

“Mm? What have you been needing me for?”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you can guess.” She took one more drag from Her cigarette, blew the smoke out quick as anything, then dropped it, ground it under Her heel, and turned to look at me properly. Seemingly without thinking about it – although I learned later that She thought about everything – She reached up to straighten my collar. Her hand lingered, just like Her eyes, which stayed locked on mine.

If She was any other woman, I would’ve kissed Her right then. She was attractive – I’d realised that the moment I’d looked at Her properly. My type. But there was something unnerving about Her which most men would probably find a massive turn-off.

  
I didn’t.

“I’d prefer to be told.” I miserably failed in stopping my gaze tracking down to Her lips, dragging it back up just in time. I could feel Her laughing at me, internally.

“I need a wardrobe moving.”

Colonel Sebastian Moran  
8th March 2021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed - I've popped two chapters up now, and the next one will be up next week / when I'm not too tired to write it. Comments are appreciated! - A


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